This head holds fragments of some shattered glass.
They act as puzzle pieces with a sharp contrast in part to what once hung here before the violent collapse of the whole dang thing.
I've dug through pieces and ripped out my hair.
No way to tell if they are all still there.
No way to tell if I will ever fully see my reflection again.
I was born on a set of stairs, higher than i was even aware.
I looked down to enjoy the view, and I caught a glimpse of you.
You were tired, and hungry, and cold.
Your hands were hard and your face was old.
Your legs collapsed as you fell and spat, "
Have you found what you're looking for yet?"
My hands hold letters from an old past self.
I'd say we're all alone, and I'd know how it felt to be one whose lost, and cold, and empty.
And I would sit down on the ground.
And the system would say "
Move on.
There's nothing to see here.
We've got to keep this engine going.
And this resistance has us slowing.
And if he's more for you, then he is less for us, and that's exactly the kind of people we can't trust."
And now I'm moving at the pace of the surrounding freezing air, desiring to spit straight into the face of billionaires.
But too dang far cowardly to do this on my own.
I'm clinging to my theory books, Nietzsche, and Thoreau.
My life's a flower and its growing but I'm so insecure.
The trick is always knowing its the rain that keeps us pure.
Its the food for my mind and body, and it brings me back to earth, so when the sun rises I can cut out all my doubt.
There is a light and it never goes out.
I'll burn a hole in my chest so you can see through.
I'll tell you things I thought I never knew.
We'll build a home for me and you.
I'll see the world for what I want it to be and nothing else.